


Born to Fly

by Spatchcock



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Archer!Pondering, Funeral, Gen, Heavy Southern Dialect (not all the dialogue), It's not Madonna though, Musician!Trip, Sentient!Porthos, Smug superior Vulcans (mentioned), Trip being charming, Trip being rude, Yeah one of THOSE crappy things, song story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-23 08:09:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8320417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spatchcock/pseuds/Spatchcock
Summary: Jonathan Archer finishes burying his father. Trip tries to convince him that humanity's dreams of space flight weren't buried with him. (A song story, but not based on the songs. Really.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Sort of a character exploration to hang on a Marc Cohn album. :) Some good bits, some awful. Read Trip's Southern dialect out loud and it'll make sense.

            It had quite possibly been the hardest day of Jon Archer’s life.

            There was nothing which could quite compare, no words to encompass the loss he endured, burying his father, burying his father’s dreams in the same coffin. Henry Archer would never see his warp engines tested, humming, straining, breaching the final barrier between Terra and the stars, flinging humanity into the Great Out There.

            Archer felt like he was burying part of his own soul.

            He didn’t let on, though. He smiled mechanically, and thanked each and every scientist and admiral and grease monkey and vice-adjutant assistant liaison who shook his hand and offered condolences. The room was packed. There was more brass than a pair of parades, engineers and physicists and diplomats, friends and family, a few gawkers with connections. And Captain Jonathan Archer was the dutiful son, grieving graciously, smothering his emotions under a heavy blanket of Starfleet training. Just like the Vulcans, he mused. _Just like the Vulcans, pretending they’re not being condescending when they tell us “your species is not ready for that information yet,” acting like they aren’t smug when when our prototype fails yet again because we’ve missed that tiny key part of the equation they chose not to share, being... being completely calm. Rational. In control_. He took a deep breath, held it for a count of five, let it out. He needed control right now. Cool, calm, collected captain. Never mind the Vulcans.

            Another engineer came up, tears in her eyes, to share a hug. “ ’Enry was a wonderful man,” she told him through a heavy European accent. “One of the best. It’s not gonna be the same without him.”

            “Thank you,” Archer said, quietly, sincerely, automatically. “That’s very kind of you.”

            “We gonna finish the warp-five engine, bambolo. We gonna finish it. It’s gonna fly. His work is — ” She choked up briefly. “...is not gonna be wasted.”

            “Of course not,” he assured her. She hugged him again, squeezing in little spasms, and them moved on. One of the Vulcan “engineering assistants” was next. A tiny woman with deep-set, remarkably violet eyes and a soft voice which held nothing of the usual veiled disdain of her people, she said simply, “We grieve with thee.”

            Archer bowed a little. “Thank you.” She nodded and returned to the Vulcan statuary by the door. Jericho, a friend of Henry’s from college, came up to put a protective arm around Jon. “What’d she say?”

            “Nothing. Expressing condolences.”

            “Ah. Good.” He squeezed comfortingly. “You’re amazing, Jonathan. I can’t believe how well you’re holding up. Three viewings?”

            “Four.”

            “Four. What a trouper. I’m a mess and you’re just... completely keeping it together. Your dad would have been proud.”

            “Thanks, Jerry. I’m... I’m sure. That he would have been.” Not now. Put it away. A captain joined them, a welcome distraction, and two maiden aunts followed him. Restrained smile, handshake or hug, murmured thanks. His eyes were dry, his throat clear. The atmosphere was slightly surreal — rather like being a maître de in hell, he thought idly between physicists. Most of the captain’s friends had come to the morning viewing. This was primarily for Henry’s colleagues and peers.

            Except Trip. Trip Tucker, Jon Archer’s steadfast friend, had been either at his side or within shouting distance the entire time these last difficult weeks. He had been at Jon’s home, at Henry’s home, at the hospital, at the lab, at every service, not pushing, not hovering, just a solid presence in the background, offering a shoulder if Archer should need it. He’d said he hadn’t. He was calm. In control. No emotional slips showing. Please, Trip, not in front of the Vulcans.

            In fact, not in front of anyone. If he displayed the least bit of anger, of frustration at the constant setbacks and subtle not-quite needling, Starfleet would be all over him. _The Vulcans will jump on any display of weakness, Jon,_ one of the higher-ups had told him. _It isn’t very logical, but they’re determined to hold us back — whatever the cost. And the worst of it is, they’re trying to protect the galaxy from **us.** I heard that in the Embassy, they call us “fortunate primates.” They say we’re such slaves to our emotions that we’re practically non-sentient._

            What they were, all of humanity, was slaves to the _Vulcans_.

            He made small talk with Commodore Baldwin for a few minutes, until Admiral Forrest came over to put a hand on Archer’s shoulder. “Jon. Your shuttle is here.”

            “My — shuttle?” Had he requested a shuttle? Was there another service to attend? How much longer did he have to do this? The hours and days were beginning to fade into a gray, prickly-eyed blur.

            The admiral smiled gently. “The service has been over for half an hour, Jonathan. I didn’t think you needed to stay for the funeral meats, so I got you a transport back to the officers’ quarters by the Presidio. Stay there tonight — wait until tomorrow before you head all the way back home.” Archer forced his eyes to focus and looked around. There were half a dozen engineers and one Vulcan astrophysicist clotted by the door, but other than that, the room was empty. He hadn’t noticed. Forrest shook him lightly. “Go on, Jon. It’s all right. You need some time to yourself now.”

            He collected himself and nodded. “Thank you, Admiral. I appreciate it. That’s very kind of you.” Forrest waved him away. Pleasant smile, firm handshakes, sincere goodbyes. His bag was already in the shuttle, and whoever was at the helm apparently knew where to go, because he took off the moment Archer was settled without asking for directions. Very efficient. Just like the Vulcans, paragons of efficiency. Maybe they’d been impressed by his performances — no histrionics, no weeping, no show of emotions at all. That was probably how Vulcan funerals were. He supposed the eulogies were résumé readings, recitations of accomplishments, listings of curriculum vitae. Which they’d made sure Jon had to cut short for his father; they couldn’t possibly permit Henry Archer to have such a sweet, longed-for success before he died. Humanity wasn’t ready for that yet. Not on the menu. A maître de in hell, indeed. _May I show you to a seat? Our specials this evening are braised ambition with a bitter sauce, blackened short cuts of progress, and dreams flambées with sour grapes._

            The shuttle touched down so expertly that Archer didn’t realize they’d landed until the door opened with a slight hiss. He blinked out of his melancholy.

            “Presidio Residence, Captain Archer.”

            “Thank you, that was a nice landing.”

            The blond pilot turned around to flash a brilliant grin. “You’re welcome, and thanks. Hey, the Warp Five project is only a few years away from launching, isn’t it?” Archer pressed his lips together in a tight approximation of a polite smile.

            “A few years, yeah.” _A few years longer than Dad will ever have._

            “Well, when you’re choosing your crew, remember that you’ll need a good pilot. And I happen to be the best pilot on the whole planet.” The young man’s vivid blue eyes glowed with absolute conviction. “So when you’re ready — remember that perfect landing, wouldja?” The helmsman’s charm and optimism were hard to ignore, even in the face of Archer’s pain. His face relaxed, and he managed something closer to a real grin.

            “I’ll do that. What’s your name?”

            “Paris. Lieutenant Commander Robert Paris.” They shook hands.

            “Well, best of luck, Commander Paris,” Archer said, climbing out of the shuttle.

            “You too, sir.” _Yeah, rotsa ruck. I’ll need it. We all will,_ Archer thought, trying again not to be bitter. It was hard. The best pilot on the whole planet carefully lifted off and flew to the east. _And he’ll never get farther than Pluto if those pointy-eared bastards don’t stop hobbling our engineering teams. They’ll probably use Dad’s death as another excuse. Just one more reason we aren’t ready yet._

            Archer deliberately stopped himself from wearing a groove in his brain. Landed. Bag. Room. Unpack. Shower. Food. Messages. Sleep. March.

            He scooped up his ’Fleet-issue tan carrysack and walked towards the tall sandstone-faced building. _They’ll probably make our uniforms these colors one day, you wait and see. Beiges and browns.They’ll call us Two-Tones, all neutral colors, skins and clothes and ships. We’ll be the laughingstock of the galaxy. And the Vulcans will tell us about the illogic of a variety of obnoxious colors, when one or two inoffensive tints will serve the purpose._ Exchanging the cool salty tang of the San Francisco air for the cool sterile atmosphere of the officers’ quarters nudged Archer just enough to snap him back out of the rut.

            He nodded to the guard who checked his ID and handed him his room card. He didn’t particularly feel like making conversation. First elevator on the left, third floor, sixth door down. Quiet institutional carpets — what had that one woman called them, “battleship gray”? — to muffle steps, steel-blue-gray walls, dark blue trim, abstract art which offered neither offense nor interest. Every hall in the residence was like this. Can’t upset the Vulcans. _Not that anything could upset those cold-blooded and there you go again, Jonny boy, I said I was going to stop this._

            He was surprised to find his door unlocked, more so to find he had company.

            “Trip?”

            The lanky Southerner was stretched out in one of the small room’s functional chairs, noodling on a worn and much-loved acoustic guitar. He looked up at Archer’s entrance. “Ah thought yew were gonna get caught up in all that diplomatic bullshit, so Ah figured Ah had enough time to git here before yew.” His drawl was still atypically thick from the emotional upheavals of the past week. He motioned with his chin towards the side table, where he’d poured a generous glass from a bottle Archer didn’t recognize. “Catch up. Yore two behind.” Trip’s own glass was mostly empty.

            Archer snorted faintly, dropping his bag onto the carpet. “Thanks.” It was whiskey, fiery and complex. Strong stuff. Strong enough to make his eyes water, he decided.

            “Thas’ mah private stock. Try an’ enjoy it on the way down,” Trip admonished with his loopy grin.

            “I am! I mean, I did. It’s good.” Archer sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the highlights in the amber liquid without really seeing them, letting the delicately picked notes run past his ears. Trip rarely played when anyone else was present, so Archer hated to be a poor audience, but it was very hard to concentrate. He was so worn out from keeping his upper lip stiff.

            The engineer could damn sure play guitar, though, drunk or sober, under fire, half asleep, or _in flagrante delicto_. Archer had always found it remarkable that his friend was so equally skilled in warp mechanics and pickin’ gee-tar. But then, perhaps they weren’t so far apart. Both music and mathematics were built on patterns; warp fields and wailed blues had standard life cycles but unique lives. The Terrans were trying to construct their first opera. The Vulcans were in the back row, crashing the cymbals out of time and shushing the tenors. _And there I go again. Dammit._ “I met a pilot on the way over here,” he began brightly, looking up. “Nice fellow. Clean landing. We should — put him on the list.”

            “Mm-hmm.” The fractal sounds began coalescing into something closer to a melody.

            “You know, the list. Our wish list. Of people who should — should, should fly with us.” Trip raised an eyebrow. “We have a pilot on the list already, don’t we? Two, I think.” He stood and started to pace a little. “We can have three, right? I mean, Starfleet’s going to want a range of people to choose from — make it look less like I’m — picking favorites or something. Oh, but don’t worry, Trip — you’re the chief engineer, I’m not going to have anybody else for that job — “

            “Jon.” Trip interrupted the captain’s faintly trembling gestures. “Siddown.” Archer looked at his friend, slowly deflating, blinking over and over. That was some strong whiskey. Trip nodded towards the bed. “Go on, set,” he encouraged gently. Archer gave in and plopped down again. “Get comf’t’ble.”

            “I am comfortable, thanks, Trip.”

            “Lahke sheeyit yew are.”

            It took Archer a moment to wade through that much pecan. “Would you like me to lie down?” he asked, weakly amused. “Take off my jacket?” Trip rolled his eyes.

            “Ah want yew to take off yer bars, Captain.” He annunciated the rank he usually slurred into a nickname. “Yore gonna get the first known ulcer in fifty years, yew keep this up.” Archer’s shoulders slumped. He stared into his drink, unable to answer.

            Trip strummed once, strongly, a one-chord overture, and then began to pick something simple but engaging. And for the first time since Archer had known him, he began to sing.

_Put on my blue suede shoes, and I/boarded the plane/Touched down in the land of the Delta blues in the middle of the pouring rain/W.C. Handy, won’t you look down over me?/Yeah, I got a first-class ticket, but I’m as blue as a boy can be/Then I’m walkin’ in Memphis/I was walkin’ with my feet ten feet off of Beale/Walkin’ in Memphis/But do I really feel the way I feel?_

            Trip was an amazing guitar player, but he kept it tightly under wraps. As a teen, he had been pressured into performing so often and for so many people that the day he left home he swore that he wasn’t going to play at anyone else’s request ever again. Even his beloved Momma couldn’t coax Trip to play now if he wasn’t in the mood. Archer was one of the few of Trip’s adult friends who knew he had any musical ability, and that was only because they’d known each other so long. For Trip to play guitar for Jon was already a rare treat; singing was a gift beyond measure.

_Now Muriel plays piano/every Friday at The Hollywood/And they brought me down to see her/and they asked me if I would/do a little number, and I sang with all my might/She said, “Tell me, are you a Christian, child?” and I said, “Ma’am, I am tonight.”/Walkin’ in Memphis/I was walkin’ with my feet ten feet off of Beale/Walkin’ in Memphis/But do I really feel the way I feel?_

            Between the warm mellow wash of the music and the whiskey simmering merrily in his belly, Archer had little choice but to relax. He tossed back the rest of his glass, refilled it a little lower this time, and scooted farther back on the bed, settling against the headboard. Trip frowned alternately at Archer and Archer’s spit-shined boots until the captain relented and removed them.

            “I suppose I should make some stupid joke about dying with your boots on,” he quipped as he put the footgear under the bed. Trip chuckled, a smooth lazy sound. “What, um, what song was that?”

            “Don’ innerupt the gee-tar player when he’s playin’,” was all Trip said. Archer immediately subsided, biting his lip and hoping he hadn’t just angered his friend into putting the guitar away.

            But he was apparently in it for the long haul. The gentle bluesy songs continued, one after the next, as Archer sipped his whiskey and his thoughts pestled his emotions into despair. Several times he took a breath to speak, to introduce some new innocuous topic so he could think about something other than The Damn Vulcans, but Trip was playing, intermittently singing, so he held his tongue. One more thing he wasn’t allowed to do. One more person dictating his actions. One more _and maybe I should stop, if a glass and a half of whiskey makes me this mushy._

            After about half an hour Trip paused to shake out his hands and top off his drink. He offered the bottle to Archer, who regarded it with a tired wariness.

            “C’mon, it’s good stuff.”

            “Yes it is, but I... I shouldn’t be drinking. I shouldn’t — ”

            “Why not?” Trip asked bluntly. “These are yore quarters for tonaht, raht? Were you plannin’ on goin’ somewhere? Drivin’ down t’the Golden Gate an’ bungee-jumpin’?”

            Archer shook his head. “No, just... not a good idea.”

            “ ’Cause yew maht say somethin.’” The bottle clunked hard on the tabletop. “Lose control. Really git angry fer a minute.” He _tsk-tsk_ ed and took a healthy slug of his whiskey. Archer furrowed his brow.

            “Trip, I can’t get angry,” he tried to explain, patiently. “It doesn’t accomplish anything. That’s been made very clear to me. If I get angry, if I lose my temper, if I display emotion, then the Vulcans — ” He stopped himself. Way too much to drink, when he was this depressed.

            “The Vulcans? The Vulcans whut?” Trip challenged him. “The Vulcans’ll thank yer a hyewman. An emotional, uncontrollable, irrational, eel-logical hyewman. Ah got news for ya, Jon Archer. They _already_ thank yer a hyewman. A meek, spahneless hyewman, who cain’t even git up on his hahnd legs an’ protest that he’s bein’ railroaded.”

            “Then what would have me do, Trip?” Archer’s voice was quiet but intense.

            “Tell ’em. Tell ’em what yer thankin’.” Trip fished a metal tube out of his shirt pocket and slipped it over his left middle finger. Even buzzed and on the verge of tears, Archer felt a slight thrill. _Slide_ guitar? Trip was really pulling out all the stops.

            He slithered the cool steel up and down the fretboard, stretching the notes like a spring. “Cain’t tell the Vulcans whut Ah’m thankin’...” Twang. “Cain’t tell the brass whut Ah thank of the Vulcans...” Twannngggggg. “Cain’t even unwind enough to cry in fronta mah bes’ friend.” Twang-ang- _angggggg_. “Ah’m Jon Archer, _woe_ is me.” A blues run. Archer expected him to start singing something derisive, some silly fake White Boy Blues which would be the perfect cap to this maddening, draining day. He looked away, struggling, choking on his retort. Trip was a friend. He was just trying to help. _Can’t yell, yelling doesn’t solve anything. Can’t yell, can’t raise your voice, can’t show... can’t why?_ _Cain’t why?_

            “So what am I supposed to do, march into T’Len’s office and demand the schematics of their engines so our teams can compare? Shake Admiral Forrest until he boots the ambassador off the planet?” His voice roughened; he was still trying not to cry. “Even if we solved the problem _tomorrow_ , Trip, that’s too late for my dad. It’s too late, it’s, it’s too... I couldn’t...” He stopped, covered his face with a hand _._ _I cannot cry. I cannot break down. I’m a Starfleet Captain, for god’s sake. Pull yourself together, Jon._

            Across from him, Trip sighed very softly. He started to strum again with intent.

_Everybody talks about some fateful day/I guess that this was mine/I may be here to tell some kinda story but I think it’s gonna take a little — time/And that’s all right/See I’m rockin’ in a cradle down the hall somewhere and I am/ lost inside a dream/Maybe I am fallin’, maybe I am flyin’, but I know if I am cryin’, she was/holdin’ me/And then the sky broke up, and then the rain came down, and it washed away everything on the ground/Wash it away, wash it away/ Wash it away/Baby’s got that bottle filled with lightning and rain/He keeps callin’ out for someone but she’s/ridin’ on a train/Ridin’ on a ghost train/Well she keeps on ridin’..._

            Archer’s resolve finally cracked. He wept silently, everything he’d been holding back for days, the grief and rage and helplessness and sorrow and yearning spilling out. Trip didn’t interfere, didn’t offer useless empty phrases of comfort, just kept playing. It was the most healing balm he could offer.

            When the quiet tears had stopped, Trip refilled his friend’s glass whether he wanted it or not. Archer took another swallow without argument.

            “Better?”

            Archer nodded. “Some.”

            “Good.” He pulled off the slide and dropped it back into his pocket, then returned to noodling, gentle chords which flowed one into another like the tide. Archer rested the cool wet glass against his forehead.

            “If you were anybody else, I’d be really embarrassed about now,” he told Trip.

            “If Ah were anybody else, yewd’a thrown me out when yew walked in here.”

            Archer managed to smile. “Let’s just say I find you very easy to talk to.”

            “Yore gonna hafta git used to talkin’ ta people who’re difficult ta talk to, Jon,” the engineer said seriously. “If yew don’t stand up t’them Vulcans, an’ tell them gran’ pooh-bahs in Starfleet that we’re goin’ forrard no matter whut the Vulcans thank, fifty years from now we’re still gonna be waitin’ for them ta tell us we’re ready. Raht now, they tell yer dad we ain’t got the raht stuff, an’ yew just crawl off an’ sulk. Yew cain’t afford ta do that anymore.” Archer looked away, uncomfortable. Trip pushed on.

            “Ah’m real sorry about yer dad, Jon. Ah cain’t tell yew how sorry Ah am. As bad as yew, maybe, in a diff’rent way. ’Cause Ah’m an engineer, an’ Ah know whut it’s like to watch somethin’ yew put yer blood-sweat-an-tears inta fail.”

            “I know,” Archer rasped. Thinking about his father’s lost chance was a blow all over again.

            “Then yew listen ta me. There’s a lot of other engineers still on the Warp Five project. The Vulcans screwed yer dad. Don’t let’em screw everybody else. Don’t let’em shut work down. Get in there on Wednesday and tell’em they’re finishin’ this fer _Henry Archer_. Stick’is picture up on the wall bah the door. Don’t let’em forget yer dad gave everythang fer this, and that they gotta see it finished. We gotta see it finished. Yew got momennum now. Use it.” Another hard chord, and then a marching melody, something to rally the troops with. The soundtrack to a stirring speech. The background music to... a complete fantasy. The captain hung his head and sighed.

            “Trip, I told you, it’s not that easy. The top guys — ”

            “Make it that easy,” he shot back. “Why’re yew still playin’ this game bah their rules? Do yew wanna fly or doncha?”

            “Of course I do! How could you even say that!”

            “ ’Cause yew shore ain’t showin’ it. Yew’ve been doin’ the whole ‘Ah’m more Vulcan than the Vulcans’ crap for days. Ah bet they were real satisfied, seein’ yew weren’t even gonna put up a fight. Jes’ rollin’ over an’ showin’ yer belly.” A sour note.

            “Trip — ” Archer’s voice was starting to rise.

            “Yew ain’t a Vulcan. Don’t act lahke one. Git angry. Git passionate. Don’t wait fer them ta tell yew it’s okay. All those engineers, all those scientists, they’re lookin’ ta yew, Jon. Yer dad was the soul a’this project. What’s his son gonna do in his memory?” Archer slumped back and looked away, fighting to contain himself. Trip pressed the advantage. “Yore pissed. Yore upset. Yore grievin’. Yer dad died with a broken heart. Are yew jes’ gonna hang yer head lahke a whipped pup, or are yew gonna take all that emotion and _use_ it for somethin’?” Now Archer looked up. The two men glared at each other. “Yore a captain. A leader. These are yore people now. Are y’gonna lead them, or are y’gonna abandon them?”

            “I’m not abandoning anyone,” he growled. “I just think — ”

            “An’ thas’ yer problem raht there, Jon. Yew thank too much. Yew analyze and wunner and chew som’n ta rags before yew do anythang. An’ bah the tahme yore good and ready ta act, it’s two weeks too late. Yew cain’t do that anymore.”

            “Actions have consequences! I can’t just — ”

            “ _In_ _action_ has consequence.” Trip suddenly lifted both hands from the fretboard, and the notes thrummed into silence. Archer couldn’t meet his friend’s eyes for a long moment. The quiet gathered, almost palpable. Trip folded his hands and waited. Archer took a breath, let it out, tried again. He rubbed his eyes and sighed, mightily weary of trying not to argue, of bottling his emotions, of rephrasing his words, of the project, of the Vulcans, of everything. Trip offered no reprieve. It took two swallows of whiskey before the captain could manage to speak.

            “I’m... afraid... of doing the wrong thing,” Archer finally admitted quietly. “I’m afraid of making a terrible mistake. Something I can’t take back. I have to — think about all the possible ways everything could go wrong. Because I’m responsible for them all.” He worried at his lower lip. “I make the wrong comment and someone from Alpha Team gets reassigned to Venezuela. I gripe too loudly about Shajek sitting in on every briefing and T’Larrik isn’t willing to work with us any more.” Archer put a hand to his forehead. “And if I can’t even oversee the process of putting together a working high-warp engine, why should they let me take the ship out at all? Why not just listen to the — the Vulcans?” _The Damn Vulcans_ , he’d almost said. “Admiral Pashtani isn’t convinced the Warp Five project should even be going on. She seems to...” He worded it delicately, out of reflex. “...to be of the opinion that our — diplomatic skills still need polishing. That we haven’t learned the appropriate — ”

            “Pashtani’d polish Soval’s knob if he told her it was ‘appropriate,’ ” Trip interjected. “Don’t listen to that idiot.” Archer’s eyes went very round at the Southerner’s unusual rudeness. Trip grinned without apology.

            It took the captain a moment to recover his train of thought. “Um. Admiral Pash— ah, Admiral Forrest too, he warned me about complaining too much. He said I would get a, a reputation for being uncooperative and difficult. That it would make everyone look bad.”

            Trip snorted. “Squeaky wheel?” His heavy drawl had vanished with the music. Archer knew it was deliberate, but he was too tired and fuzzy-headed to figure out what his friend meant by it.

            “Flat tire.” Archer sipped his drink. “Broken axle. The nut behind the wheel.” He folded his hands around the glass. “The... guidance of the Vulcans is considered very imporant. Too important to — to piss them off.” Trip rolled his eyes. Archer made a _yeah-yeah_ gesture. “They’re older than we are, Trip. Older as people, older as a culture. They’ve been around more, seen more, done more. They’ve got experience we won’t have for — ” He waved a hand loosely. “ — hundreds of years. So the top people at Starfleet, and not incidentally our own government, think it’s a good idea to listen to them. That they’ve got — important things to say. Wisdom. Perspective.” Archer let his hand fall to his lap and looked out the window, at the darkness framed by beige curtains. His voice was soft. “What if the Vulcans are right? What if we’re not ready? Not good enough?”

            “Are you talking about humanity? Or about yourself?” Archer wondered in the back of his mind if Starfleet’s engineering track included marksmanship courses. Trip certainly had good aim.

            “Me, I guess.”

            “You _guess_? Or are you saying what you think I want to hear?”

            That was just _it_. The captain’s temper abruptly snapped. “Look, Trip, what do you want from me? You want me to say I’m weak? I’m weak. You want me to grieve? I am grieving. You want me to go knock some Vulcans on their asses?”

            “That’d be a good start,” Trip replied, and sat back with a satisfied smile. Archer blinked, the wind completely taken from his sails. “...What?”

            “Start feeling. Start _acting_ on what you’re feeling. I’m not saying you should run off and do the first half-baked thing that pops into your head, but quit holding back. Quit being polite. Quit bein’ s’damn _nahce_.” He went Southern again for a moment in his sarcasm. “Trust your gut, Jon. You’ve got instincts. Listen to them.”

            “Trust my gut,” Archer repeated disdainfully. “Trust my _fist_ , you mean. What was it they used to call it? ‘Cowboy diplomacy’? Punch my way through whatever I can’t understand? Yell and stamp my feet until I get my way? That’d make Dad real proud. A great legacy for a great man.” He raised his glass mockingly. “Here’s to Henry Archer, who took us to the stars. And to his only son Jonathan, who dragged us down back out of them.” He finished the glass and shuddered. “I told you. I have to think about _all_ the consequences of my actions. Because I’m going to be held responsible no matter what happens. Good, bad, or indifferent — it’s all going to be my fault.”

            Trip nodded slowly. “Can’t bear to embarrass your dad by making a mistake you can’t fix, is that it?” A soft strum, then another.

            “Just imagine, Trip.We’re so close. Another year, maybe two. We’ve nearly cracked those ratios. And I do one idiotic thing, and the Vulcans shut us down.”

            Aimless chains of four-four bars wandered out in search of a melody. “And you figure your dad messed up his chance by doing things the human way, so maybe you’ll do it right by doing things the Vulcan way?”

            “Can’t hurt,” Archer agreed, dropping the glass onto the nightstand.

            “Sure it can,” said Trip. “Hurts you like hell, don’t it?” Archer’s entire face crumpled. He covered his face with his hands, breath held, keeping the sobs in by sheer will. _I will not cry. I will not cry. I am not a child. I will not cry_.

            It was a full thirty seconds before he could unclench himself and open his eyes, marginally in control. “This... project — the Warp Five project — is bigger than I am.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “It’s bigger than you and me. It’s bigger — than my father. I owe it to these people — I owe it to my people, to my species — to get it right. Not to screw it up.”

            “Like your dad.”

            “My dad didn’t screw anything up!” he exploded, pounding the mattress. “He would have done just damn fine if the Vulcans hadn’t held him back!”

            “So why are you letting them hold _you_ back?” Archer stared at him, eyes burned dry from crying. “That was your dad’s mistake,” Trip continued, with the kindness of breaking bad news gently. “He let somebody else put limits on his work. On our work. You can’t. You’re right; it’s bigger than both of us. Warp Five is too big to let them stand in our way, Jon. We have to do this ourselves. We have to take this away from them.” The strumming developed a slow heartbeat. “We’ll make mistakes. Just accept it. But not because we’re bad people, or stupid. Just because we’re new at it. And we’ll figure out how to fix our mistakes. That’s how we learn. We ain’t Vulcans. We ain’t the Vulcans’ children. They’ve been babysittin’ us long enough. We can’t learn if they do everything for us.” He tilted his head slightly, raised an eyebrow. “You’ll do jes’ fine, Cap’n. Trust y’self.”

            “ ‘Just fine’ isn’t good enough.” Jon drew his legs up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, dimly aware how vulnerable he looked, and past caring. “I have to be perfect. This is going to be the first deep-space exploration vessel which our species, our whole planet, sends Out There. My ship — Dad’s ship, Dad’s engine — ” He wiped at his eyes. Astonishing that there could be any tears left, any emotion, after the long raw week. “ — It’s my father’s dream, Trip. And mine. And yours, and a whole lot of other people’s — ”

            “What happens to a dream deferred?” his friend quoted idly. Archer blinked and frowned, derailed by the apparent non sequitur. He started and stopped a few times before the words would come.

            “I can’t let these people down,” the captain finally said, almost pleading. “I have to — to do this exactly right. I have to say the right things and shake the right hands and kiss the right asses because if I don’t, Trip, if I get _one thing wrong_ the whole project goes up in smoke. Don’t you understand?”

            Trip shook his head. “Is that what they’re telling you? For want of a nail, the kingdom was lost?” A cascade of notes staggered down the scale and crashed into the tuning pegs.

            “I can’t mess this up, Trip.” He sounded desperate. “I can’t make mistakes. I can’t afford to do the wrong thing. I can’t do this the wrong way. I have to get it right. The first time.”

            “It ain’t doin’ that’ll keep us groundbound, Cap’n. It’s not doin’.”

            Archer leaned back and ran his fingers through his hair. His thinning hair. He was 43. Time was running out. Too much longer and they’d select someone else for this mission. Too many more delays and he’d never fly at all. But do it wrong, and no one would get off the planet. Not in his lifetime, anyway.

            “If you don’t do anything, you can’t do anything wrong, is that it?”

            Archer sighed, weary eyes closed against his friend’s piercing gaze. Trip was his best friend, his brother, and his conscience. He could also be the _worst_ friggin’ nag. Not to mention obtuse. _But that’s why they gave you that fourth bar, right, Jonny? Because you can see there’s more than one side to every situation, because you don’t lose your cool, because you understand about the butterfly’s wings in the rainforest —_

            “Of course I have to do things, Trip,” Archer began again, with exaggerated patience. “It’s mind-bending how much I have to do. But I have to do it all right. I have to — ”

            “What do you really want to do, Jon?” Trip interrupted. Archer rolled his eyes and answered without thinking.

            “Tell them to get the hell off my planet.”

            “Get the hell out of our way.” A skirling note rose from the guitar, like a car engine revving into high gear.

            “Yeah.” Archer smiled sadly. “Sock one of them right in the kisser. But I can’t. I can’t hit anyone, I can’t order them to leave, I can’t yell. Yelling doesn’t solve anything. They don’t get it. Yelling makes it worse.”

            “Have you ever yelled at ’em before?”

            “No, of course not. Why would I yell at a Vulcan? What would it accomplish?” Trip cocked his eyebrow again, the teacher waiting for the student to see his mistake and come up with the right answer. Archer shook his head. “What are you getting at?”

            “Why are we goin’ out there, Jon?” Trip asked, appearing to change the subject. The captain frowned. Two glasses of whiskey was definitely too much. Trip Tucker was about as straightforward a person as he’d ever known. If he couldn’t follow _that_ man’s line of reasoning from one sentence to the next, he was pretty much potted.

            “It’s like Cochrane said — to see what we haven’t seen. To go where no man has gone before.”

            “Mmm-hmmm.” More chords. Archer waited for it. Nothing.

            “...And?”

            “Where haven’t you been before? What haven’t you _done_ before?”

            _Huh?_ “You think I should lose my temper and shout at the Vulcans because no one’s ever tried it? That — that bludgeoning them with emotion will move things along where seasoned diplomats have been spinning their wheels?”

            “Now you’re talkin’.”

            “Triiiiiip...” Archer groaned, dropping his head into his hands. “It doesn’t work like that.”

            “No, the _Vulcans_ don’t work like that,” Trip said. “And that’s why you have to. You’ve been dancing to their tune for ten years now, and your dad for twenty or thirty before that. Aren’t you tired of it?”

            “Haven’t you been listening to me?” The captain abruptly got up and started to pace. “That would be the absolute worst thing I could do. Just yell? Flail my arms around?” He demonstrated, nearly knocking over the bedside lamp. “The Damn Vulcans already think we’re barely more than talking apes. Why don’t I prove it? Just stomp right over and tell them to butt out of the way? We’ve got places to go, things to do, reputations to destroy! Dad’s body is hardly cold in his grave; I bet he’s got plenty of room to spin!”

            Trip played on, unruffled. “When do you think they’re gonna tell you that we’re ready?” The question didn’t appear to be rhetorical. Archer busied himself with straightening the lampshade while his fuming wore off. He twisted and tapped and leveled the shade for over a minute, the answer eluding him.

            “I don’t know,”  he said at last. “We’re continuing to work on the engine design. I mean, once it’s done, once we finally figure it out, they can’t keep us here, right? They can’t — the Vulcans can’t — herd us in on our own planet, can they?” Trip shrugged.

            “You’re the one who talks to all the admirals. You’re the head of the team now. You tell me.”

            The captain was still for a long time, considering this. The music flowed in a steady stream.

            Archer sat back down on the bed, slowly, his mind working through all the possibilities. “They could,”  he finally said. “Even if we got it right, they could keep us grounded. A word here, a meeting there, pressure on the right people — ”

            “Pashtani and Soval — ”

            “The election next year — ”

            “The head engineer’s gone, nobody knew that project like he did, better check through all your equations again to make sure they’re right, or let _us_ check ’em — ”

            “And eight or ten more years go by,” Archer finished. Trip nodded.

            “You see what I’m sayin’ now? The only way you’re gonna let your dad down is if we never fly. If it doesn’t happen for another generation. If it’s somebody else’s engines, building on Henry Archer’s work without actually using it, that get Out There. That’d be the only real embarrassment.” Archer sagged back against the headboard. The realization was agonizing, a stab to the stomach.

            “We can do this, Trip. We can do this _now_. We don’t need someone else to step in and start over using Dad’s design as a springboard. Dad’s design will work.”

            “I know that. _You_ know that. Tell it to the Vulcans.”

            The captain sighed, deeply. “All I ever wanted was for my father to be proud of me. He was so thrilled when I got my promotion. He’d put in extra hours because he wanted to finish sooner, so he could see me command his ship.” He looked over at the empty whiskey glass. “It was his life’s ambition.”

            “Then do it for him. Get out there. However you have to. Be a jerk. Rant a little. Don’t take no for an answer, not even once. What you do now with the Vulcans is gonna set the tone for everything that comes next.” The martial air returned, as a refrain rather than a call to action. “Lead with your heart. Do this your way. Not theirs. Your dad didn’t lose his chance because he did things the human way — it’s because he wasn’t human _enough_. He should’ve told the Vulcans and Pashtani to take a flyin’ leap and let us finish the job. He didn’t. Now it’s up you you.” A final chord, uplifting, full of promise, and Trip was done.

            He reached underneath the table for the guitar cover and stood. “I’m not gonna lecture you all night. You’re an adult. You’re the captain. You gotta make your own decisions. Ah’m jes’ — givin’ yew mah opinion.”

            Archer swallowed and scrubbed a hand across his face. “Thanks,” he said hoarsely, meaning it. Trip nodded, tucking the guitar into its bag and zipping it shut. “Get some sleep. Go sightseeing tomorrow. Muir Woods are real nice.”

            “I’ve never been.”

            “So go.” He shouldered the guitar. “I got an early flight out or I’d go with you.” He picked up his jacket from the bed and slung it over his arm.

            “Where to?”

            The engineer grinned. “Back home. Momma’s pitchin’ a fit ’cause I’ve been out here for two weeks and only called her three times.” Archer’s eyes widened in mock horror.

            “You’d better hire a bodyguard.”

            “Ah’d better reserve mah burial plot.” Trip found the whiskey bottle and tucked it into the pocket of his jacket as Archer stood. They embraced for a long moment. “Thanks, little brother,” the captain said again when he was able to let go. Trip squeezed his shoulder.

            “Call me.”

            “I will.” Trip saw himself out.

            The click of the door latch seemed to cause the temperature to drop several degrees. The small room suddenly felt cavernous. Trip’s charisma, his music, his sheer presence had filled every corner and crevice, and now Archer was cold and alone, like someone had yanked a warm blanket off his shoulders.

            _I need company_ _,_ he decided muzzily. _I’m tired of being by myself. When I get a real apartment I’m going to get a dog._

 

 

            “You don’t know how much I’m restraining myself from knocking you on your ass!”

 

 

            There was something bothering the armory officer. It was nothing Archer could put a finger on, but since that last batch of mail, Malcolm had been... diminished somehow. His “yes sir” wasn’t quite as crisp, his hands a little slower on the controls. The captain wanted to get to the bottom of it.

            “What do you think, Porthos? How can I get him to open up?” The beagle wagged his tail. “I’m the captain. I’m — an authority figure. I make him nervous. Well, I did. Maybe he’s more relaxed about it now.” Archer scooped up the water polo ball and bounced it lightly off the cabin wall. “Another breakfast? Maybe a high tea?” He grinned.

            _//Actually, that’s not a bad idea. Wine and cheese. How about a nice Stilton?//_ Porthos wondered. _//A Stilton with cranberries on wheat crackers. Or a Cornish Yarg... it’s been a long time since I had a good Cornish Yarg.//_ The captain bounced the ball again, thinking. “That letter was from home. I wonder if he’s upset about something his father said. He really looks up to his father. I know how that is,” he added dryly. “He probably did something or thinks he did something to disappoint the old man...” Bounce. “...Doesn’t know how to get past it... stand on his own two feet...” Bounce. His brow furrowed. “Has to learn to be his own man... say what’s on his mind... not let expectations smother him...”

            _//Sage Derby? Leicester? What region of England is he from, anyway?//_ Porthos whined.

            “Well, it’s hard to get out of your father’s shadow, Porthos.” Bounce. “I needed help. I needed a good shove.” Bounce. “Maybe that’s all Malcolm needs — a good shove.” Bounce.

            _//A Dorset Blue Vinny. That’s rare enough, it’ll open him up.//_ He barked and leapt to his feet.

            “You’re right,” Archer agreed, putting the ball down on the neat bed.

            _//You think so? But can the resequencers make a **good** Dorset Blue Vinny? I’d hate to offer him a cheap replica.//_

            “I’m going to go talk to him.” Archer mimed a push. “See if I can’t — help him out a little.” He ruffled Porthos’s ears and left. Porthos drooped and reseated himself on the cushion. _//Maybe I can talk to Hoshi. She understands me. She likes Brie.//_

 

            Archer stepped out of the turbolift on B deck, rehearsing his speech _. “_ _Just thought I’d stop by and see how you were doing...” “You’ve been a little off lately...” no, how about “You haven’t been yourself lately” — and what’s he going to say, “Have I been someone else?”_ Archer chuckled to himself as he reached Malcolm’s door and raised his hand to hit the doorchime.

            A melody, vaguely familiar, swift and expertly picked, edged into the corridor.

_My daddy, he is grounded like the oak tree/My momma, she is steady as the sun/Oh, you know I love my folks, but I keep starin’ down the road/Just lookin’ for my one chance to run/Hey, ’cause I will soar a-way like the blackbird/ I will blow in the wind like a sea/I will plant my heart in the garden of my dreams and I will grow up where I wander wild and free/Oh, how do you wait for heaven/an’a who has that much time?/And how do you keep your feet on the ground when you know/that you were born — you were born, yeah, you were born to fly..._

            The captain paused, mid-motion, and then withdrew his hand altogether. He wasn’t needed here. The quiet Brit was in good hands.

**Author's Note:**

> “Walkin’ in Memphis” and “Ghost Train” are copyright 1990 by Marc Cohn and Museum Steps Music. “Born to Fly” is copyright 2000 by Sara Evans, Marcus Hummon, and Darrell Scott. Used without permission. Paramount owns Trek; I don’t. Not making any money off this because seriously, nobody would fucking pay me to read this crap. :)


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